Guerilla Warfare
by Meilan Firaga
Summary: Imprisoned on charges of conspiracy, Quentin Lance is surprised the day he gets an unfamiliar visitor. What the woman has for him, at the behest of their "mutual friend" is a chance to turn his back on his past in order to help save Starling City's future. Slade Wilson has played the overtures of war. The only question is, who will fight against him? AU after S02E18.
1. Conscription

This lovely little plot bunny attacked me out of nowhere after watching the episode "Deathstroke", and before I knew what had happened I was several thousand words in.

As always, I own nothing.

* * *

**_Chapter One - Conscription_**

"Prison does not suit you, Mr. Lance."

While the guard bound him to the links in the floor beneath the table, Quentin took stock of the woman sitting across from him. She was in her mid thirties with thick, curly copper hair. The pencil skirt and blouse she wore beneath her black suit jacket were immaculately pressed. Her eyes, slightly wide-set, were a very forgettable shade of brown. In short, she looked like any other suit that might find the time to talk to any criminal in IronHeights, but something about her set him on edge. Whoever she appeared to be, what she actually was seemed to be far from it.

The guard finished securing his bonds and took a few steps back, standing behind him as though prepared to stay there for whatever conversation might take place. The woman turned her gaze on the guard, unblinking. She stared for several long moments, waiting for the hint to take root. Finally, she turned her eyes back to her lap. "I do believe that even criminals have the right to conversation without a babysitter." Her voice was deceptively mild. "I would hate to have to call for an investigation of this facility because one overzealous guard thought it necessary to eavesdrop rather than retreating to stand by the door as protocol dictates."

Quentin could actually feel the angry flush that crept over the guard before he retreated as she'd suggested, and he knew without turning that the man would be hovering just inside the door, his eyes never leaving the prisoner in his charge. When the woman looked up again, her eyes bored into his own. Though her expression betrayed nothing, he could swear a flash of amusement lit her eyes. That alone kept his voice low when he addressed her. "I don't know you." The statement was flat and without question.

"No, you do not," she agreed, sliding a legal pad onto the table. "I was asked to speak to you by a mutual friend of ours." The next look she gave him was full of significance. "Felicity Smoak tells me that she thinks very highly of you."

_Message received,_ Quentin thought. Given that his association with the Arrow was what got him into this mess, he wasn't entirely sure he liked where this conversation might be going. "She's a good girl. Just tends to get herself into too much trouble at times."

This time, the smile crossed her lips but never reached her eyes. "That is something on which we can both agree." She tapped a pen against the legal pad once, twice, three times, and then began to scribble notes. "Unfortunately, Miss Smoak's employer has taken several hits to his business as of late." She wasn't just talking about Oliver Queen. "Which, of course, is the reason why I'm here."

He waited, watching her. Something in the woman's mannerisms bothered him. Sitting in a prison seemed to be the absolute last thing that she wanted to do, but there was determination in her posture.

"Starling City is rotting, Mr. Lance." Her voice dropped, not low enough to be considered a conspiratorial whisper but certainly enough to keep from carrying to the guard at the door. "There is only so much that one person can do when they've lost most of their pieces and the opponent still has every pawn on the chessboard. It is particularly taxing when an important knight has been taken." Her eyes roamed over his face, and Quentin knew exactly what she was seeing: a black eye, stitches over the opposite eyebrow, the split in his lip, and the bandage across the bridge of his nose. The pen scratched against the legal pad, and he suspected it might be an inventory of his visible injuries. A lock of that copper hair fell over her face as her gaze fell to her writing. "Justice cannot come on the wings of the law when those wings are broken."

"Get to the point," he growled. "I've never been fond of dancing."

When she looked up at him again, beneath her lashes and that unmoved lock of hair, there was a genuine smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "I've always loved to dance." The admission was even quieter, but she didn't give him time to ponder it. "You have a choice. You can stay here while your case gets pushed back, passed over, and delayed until Starling City is nothing but waste, hoping that our mutual friend can fix it on his own. You can be a victim of a broken system and money shoved into the pockets of men you thought were as bent on upholding the law as you once were. Or you can be the honorable man that I'm told you are and fight for what you know is right."

His brow furrowed, uncomprehending. The woman leaned back in her chair, dropping her pen to the table. She crossed one leg over the other and folded her arms across her chest.

"You are a soldier, Mr. Lance," she continued. "For years you have been a soldier of the law, but that was never your goal. You weren't fighting for words written on paper and debated by people whose morals change like the seasons. You fought for this city, and all of the people in it who've been wronged. For a long time you've labored under the false pretense that the law had the same goal that you did, and perhaps at one time that was the case. As I said before, this city is rotting. When those who make the law begin to decay, the law can no longer be relied upon for justice. Realizing that, whether you've admitted it or not, is what brought you here."

"Your time's almost up," the guard called from the doorway, his voice laced with irritation. All at once, the woman's eyes became hard again, and she shot a glare at the guard that could have seared flesh. Her hand disappeared into her jacket, reemerging with several shiny plastic cards. She dropped them to the table, sliding them one by one across to him.

"Phone cards seem so outdated until one ends up in prison," she quipped. The first card had Laurel's name and cell number scribbled on the front in black sharpie. "It seems cruel to limit one's words to those they love by a piece of plastic loaded with money." The second had Sara's name and number. The last one, shoved at him with two very pointed finger taps against its corner, said Felicity, but the number on it was not the one he knew to belong to the IT specialist. "Miss Smoak was adamant that you only call when you're ready to rejoin the fight." The woman sat back, dropping her pen and legal pad into the purse sitting at her feet.

As the guard returned and began to unhook the restraints she stood, gathering her purse and walking steadily toward the door. As her hand reached for the handle she turned halfway, her expression open for a brief instant before the cool mask she'd been wearing shuttered over the flash of concern. "And, Mr. Lance, there are many men in here who are far less than happy with you. After all, you have quite the track record with the police force. Do take care of yourself."

Then she was gone, whirling out the door like a wisp of smoke. It wasn't until he was back in his cell, lying on the hard bunk and running his fingers over the three phone cards, that he realized she'd never given him her name. Just what was the Arrow playing at?

His conversation with Laurel was tense. He could tell in the tone of her voice that there was something she wasn't telling him. It hurt, but given everything she'd been through and piling his arrest on top of it he really couldn't blame her. She kept it shorter than he would have liked, using her work for the DA's office as a flimsy excuse that he saw straight through.

* * *

It was several days before he had the chance to use Sara's card. A couple of gang bangers caught up with him in the yard, and he spent some time recovering from the beating in the prison infirmary. They'd cracked several of his ribs, broken his nose, and knocked out one of his molars. With most prisoners being such a target for the other inmates would warrant solitary confinement, but the warden seemed to overlook everything that might go even the slightest bit in Quentin's favor. If nothing else, it served as proof that his mystery visitor might have been onto something.

Sara picked up on the first ring, sounding slightly winded. "Hello?"

Despite the pain in his jaw, he smiled. "Hey, Sara."

"Dad?" There was some rustling on the line and the distinct sound of voices shushing one another. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, sweetheart, it's me."

"It's him!" Sara confirmed to whoever she was with. "I was expecting to hear from you days ago!"

"I know. I'm sorry. Got into a bit of a tussle and had to spend a couple of days recovering." Quentin could hear the anger in her silence. "Don't you get all riled. Your daddy's a grown man, and he can take care of himself." She gave a little snort that told him worlds about what she thought of his ability to handle himself in a fight. "We can't all be world class assassins. How are things going?"

At the other end of the line, Sara sighed, her voice heavy with stress. "Not good. We're pretty seriously outmatched. There just aren't enough of us to handle this. We've all been calling in favors wherever we can think to find them."

"Was it a favor that brought me these phone cards?" he asked, the remarkably unremarkable woman flashing behind his eyes. "I never did get a name."

"That doesn't surprise me," Sara admitted. "It wasn't one of my favors." In the background, someone spoke out with sudden urgency. "Shit. Dad, I have to go, but don't hang up. There's someone else here who wants to talk to you. I love you. Don't get beat up so much."

"I'll try," he promised. "Be careful, Sara. I love you."

There was shuffling as the phone changed hands, and he heard several voices clamoring over one another. An address was shouted, and then another female voice came clearly through the din. "...try not to come back shot this time! Detective Lance?"

He smiled in spite of the pang of loss that raced through him. "I'm not even a cop anymore, Miss Smoak, much less a detective."

"It's Felicity, and you will always be a detective to me," she huffed. "Hold on a second." A flurry of keystrokes and a hiss of static later she spoke again. "Okay, that should scramble the call to sound like some really bad reception to anyone listening in, but I've only got a few minutes. Did your visitor give you a card with my name on it?"

"Yes-"

"Good," she interrupted, taking a deep breath. "Now, that number is definitely not mine so don't expect me to answer it when you call but we had to use my name for the cover to work since I've been telling everyone who will listen all about how you're the closest thing I've got to a father and by the way the press are a bunch of sucky vultures and if it hadn't been for Sara they would have made me insane." His heart stuck in his throat. The closest thing she had to a father? "Anyway, when you call make sure you say my name at least once and don't ever refer to her as anything else, okay?"

Shaking his head, he replied, "I can do that, but would you mind telling me who exactly I'll be talking to?"

Felicity hesitated, and Quentin could swear he heard her chewing on her bottom lip. "That's not for me to tell. That is, she's picky about who she gives her name to and you really need to ask her. But don't do it over the phone! Wait until after when the plan's in motion and all of that." She took another deep breath. "Look, I know that you're probably thinking that whatever we've got planned can't be strictly legal and you're pretty much spot on, but the thing is that we're really worried that someone's going to put out a prison hit on you and there's nothing we can do to get you out from a strictly legal standpoint. I mean, the city has barred Laurel from going anywhere near your case and none of us trust the other attorneys who've been assigned because we have no idea who Slade has in his pocket." A crackle of static came across the line. "And that's the end of my trip through the tunnel, it seems," she finished lamely, clearly uncomfortable with using a cover. "Can you promise me that you're going to take care of yourself?"

He softened, warmth blossoming through his chest at the genuine worry in her voice. "I promise. Promise me that you'll take care of everyone else?"

"As much as I can," she snorted. "All I do is sit at a computer. Speaking of, my baby is beeping at me which means that I need to go and do my 'work' things." The emphasis on 'work' wasn't lost on him.

"Felicity?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd be proud to have you as a daughter." At the other end of the line, Felicity Smoak babbled her way through an embarrassed goodbye, reminding him three more times to be safe. He stood at the phone for several long moments after they hung up, twirling the third phone card between his fingertips. It wasn't that the decision was particularly difficult. What bothered him was how absolutely easy it was to make. Was everything really as bad as he now believed it to be, or had he just been corrupted by his alliances?

Whichever was the truth, he still dialed the number written beneath Felicity's name. He didn't breathe for the three long rings before the woman at the other end of the line picked up. A spark of static came through before she spoke, alerting him that she was using something similar to Felicity's scrambler. "Hello, Mr. Lance." Her voice was just as collected as he remembered it from their brief meeting. "I trust that whatever criminals attacked you this time left your voice intact." Somehow, it wasn't surprising that she knew he'd been in a fight. Thankfully, he was more comfortable with covers than the sweet IT girl he'd been talking to not long before.

"Hey, Felicity," he began, affecting a voice that said he was annoyed at himself for leaving something out. "I forgot to tell you that I'm ready to fight."

"Excellent," she practically purred. "I'll see you in two days. Try not to get killed before then." With another crackle of static, the line went dead.

"You too, kiddo," he muttered for the benefit of the others near him.

Two days.


	2. Jailbreak

**_Chapter Two - Jailbreak_**

"Let's go, Lance."

The clattering of his cell door opening roused Quentin more than the guard's voice. It was early on the second day, and a sick sense of dread filled him as the guard motioned for him to get up and move out. Moving him would likely cause a problem with whatever plan the Arrow had for a break out, and as much as he wasn't thrilled with the idea of breaking out, he did want to be in a position to help save StarlingCity.

"Bring your things," the guard ordered as Quentin moved to leave the cell without them. He didn't have much: a picture of his girls with Dinah from years ago, a battered copy of some wizard crime novel he'd read a thousand times, and the three now useless phone cards. He dropped them all into the too-large box the guard was holding and let another man secure his hands in a pair of cuffs. They led him down the hallway, securing the cell behind them. Rather than taking him to another cell, however, they escorted him straight to the warden's office.

A very slender woman with a long, blonde braid stood beside the warden's desk. She wore a neatly tailored black pantsuit with a white blouse and a pair of slim, black-framed glasses perched on her nose. The faint outline of a shoulder holster could just barely be seen beneath her jacket. The edge of some sort of badge was barely hidden by the tilt of her hips. When Quentin studied her face his heart began to thump rapidly in his chest. Her features were angular, far more masculine than the red headed woman who'd given him the phone cards. Her lips were thin and barely tinted rather than full and colored, but her eyes-they were the same too forgettable shade of brown.

"Quentin Lance," the woman began, reading his name directly from a thin sheaf of papers in her hand. Her voice had a nasally quality to it, but there were still similarities to the throaty alto he'd heard on the phone. "You are hereby remanded into the custody of the United States Marshals Service." Her eyes remained on the papers, but one hand dropped to her hip and pulled back the edge of her jacket to reveal what he thought might be a very real marshal badge. "You will be transported to an undisclosed location to await negotiations regarding your assistance in a federal judicial matter. Do you understand?"

For the first time, her eyes met his. Every doubt he'd had disappeared as a familiar gleam of amusement flickered behind the lenses of her glasses before being replaced with a very serious glare. "I do."

The woman handed the sheaf of paper to the warden, stepping forward to fasten her own pair of handcuffs around his wrists. She turned him to the guard, allowing them to remove the prison cuffs while she gave him a quick, cursory pat down to make sure he wasn't hiding anything. "I urge you not to make any escape attempts, Mr. Lance," she lectured. "The last prisoner I transported did, and then he spent quite a bit of time recovering in a hospital for his efforts." As she finished her search, he found himself fighting his own reflexes to keep from flinching at what might have been an entirely purposeful pinch to his backside.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he quipped, glaring down into her face as he was turned to face her once more. If he was right, and this woman was on the Arrow's side, they were going to have a long talk about things that were and weren't appropriate. He'd ignore that an attractive woman hadn't bothered to pinch him like that in a long time-particularly when he had no idea what that woman really looked like beneath her disguises.

"You got lucky, Lance," the warden growled. "Most men aren't don't get the chance to be threatened by such a pretty little thing."

It took everything he had not to laugh when she didn't even bother to conceal her annoyance.

* * *

The black SUV parked in the prison yard was exactly the type a marshal would drive, down to the cage to keep prisoners in the back. While a guard situated his belongings in the trunk, the woman secured Quentin behind the passenger seat. She leaned across him to fasten his seatbelt, one hand on the gun beneath her jacket. When she pulled back the guard slammed the lift door, and in the rush of sound she pressed something small and metal between his palms.

"When I say," she whispered, using the brief few seconds to further hide her words. Without a glance, she shut the door on him. While she carried on a brief conversation with the guard he opened his palms and found a silver handcuff key. Folding his hands neatly over the key, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, imitating the prisoners of his memory.

She slammed the door slightly when she climbed behind the wheel, and Quentin peeked out beneath his lashes. Her eyes found his in the rearview mirror, the lenses of her glasses automatically tinting in the daylight. Everything about her face told him to keep his mouth shut, so he did exactly that while they paused at the gate. She spoke with an easy manner to the guard who collected her prisoner transfer pass, and no one gave her any trouble as they drove through the gate and onto the open road. It wasn't until Iron Heights completely disappeared behind them that she finally spoke.

"Alright, you can use the key now." The nasally quality in her voice was gone, replaced by the same lilt he'd heard over the phone. She kept talking while he fit the key in the lock and eased the cuffs off. "If you lift up the seat next to you, you'll find a black duffle bag. Go ahead and get changed."

He dropped the cuffs to the floor, key still lodged in the lock, and followed her instructions. There was, indeed, a bag beneath the seat. When he opened it he found a stack of clothing that he was pretty sure came out of his closet and a pair of military combat boots that he'd never seen before. "Do I even want to know how you managed to find clothes that look like the type of thing I like wearing?"

"I broke into your apartment and took them from your closet," she admitted, not missing a beat. "The boots were someone else's idea."

"You know, I usually at least know a woman's name before I strip in front of her," he joked, halfway through the buttons on the orange jumpsuit he was going to hate for the rest of his life.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her flip the review mirror into its night driving position so she couldn't see him. "Technically, you're stripping behind me."

Quentin rolled his eyes as he worked his way into his jeans. He should have seen that one coming. "You can pinch my ass, but a name's too much," he grumbled as they slowed at a stop sign. She turned left, and he shot to attention. "Hey. Starling City is the other way."

"According to your transfer papers, you are being transported to a location outside of the city. We have to make this look good." After a short pause, she added "I needed to make sure you knew who I was so you wouldn't actually try an escape attempt." She turned her head just enough that he could see the smirk on her lips while he buttoned his shirt. "And you've got a pretty nice ass for a man with two grown daughters."

Fighting not to let himself blush-really, how long had it been since a woman complimented him for something besides his work?-he busied himself with lacing up the boots. She stayed silent, seemingly intent on her driving. When he finally finished with the laces, he turned to replace the bag and found it was still heavy. Checking its depths again revealed his favorite leather jacket and, beneath that, a shoulder holster with two loaded side arms. His eyebrows nearly crawled into his hairline, but he didn't question it, strapping the holster in place and sliding his arms into the jacket.

They started to slow down. Retrieving the cuffs from the floorboard, Quentin shoved them into his jacket pocket. A stretch of deep river ran along the side of the road, and the woman pulled the SUV off the shoulder until it was just a few feet from the water's edge. A flash of red behind them caught his eye, and he turned to find a red sports car pulling up along the side of the road. "End of the line," the woman quipped, killing the engine and hopping down from the driver's seat. Quentin followed, stepping out into the sunlight just in time to hear her shout to who he assumed was the driver of the red car. "There's a box in the back, and that's it." He turned the corner at the back of the SUV and stopped in shock at the sight of Roy Harper.

"Officer Lance," the kid greeted him with a grin and a jerk of his head as he opened the trunk and lifted out the box of Quentin's possessions. "Explanations later. Stick this in the trunk of the car." He dropped the box into Quentin's hands, and turned to the woman who was now crawling into the back of the sports car, a small backpack in her hands. "In the river with this?"

Her response was muffled, but Quentin could only assume it was some version of 'yes.' While he popped the trunk on the car and set his box inside, he watched as the young man he'd had in cuffs more times than he could count gave one hard shove and sent the SUV into the center of the river. Roy didn't bother to watch it sink, jogging back to the car. The kid closed the trunk and nodded toward the passenger side of the car. Quentin settled into the passenger seat in a bit of a haze, buckling his seatbelt and trying not to think too hard on anything.

"It's a long story," Roy sighed, not even sparing him a glance as he turned the engine over and eased them back onto the road.

Suddenly, a blonde wig collided with the side of Roy's face. "Yes, it's a long damn story," the woman's voice crept up from the back, "and if you bother with it now we'll only have to go through it twice because you know your boss is going to repeat every word."

"Boss?" Quentin asked, trying very hard to ignore the tell tale shuffle of clothing from the back seat.

"I work for the Arrow," Roy admitted. "We don't agree a lot."

Before Quentin could ask more a loud snort came from the woman behind them. "That's an understatement," she muttered. The sound of velcro tearing loose came just before an immense sigh of relief. "My god. Remind me not to decide to be a skinny chick again. Binders are made of hell."

"Hey, you're the one that said having a different body type would make you less conspicuous," Roy laughed.

"Shut up," she growled. "Can one of you hand me the contact case and make-up wipes out of the glove box?"

Leaning forward, Quentin fished the requested items out of the glove box and turned to hand them to her. She didn't even look at him as she plucked them from his hand, but his jaw clenched at the sight of her, and he nearly wrenched a muscle in his neck when he rushed to turn back to the front of the car. He'd forced his mind not to look too hard, but he still knew he'd seen a lot of white lace, a long braid of light brown hair wrapped around her head, and what might have been some sort of tattoo on her hip. _Still don't know her name, Quentin, _he told himself. _It's been a long time, but don't even think about it._

He was silent for a long time, listening to Roy and the woman bicker while she finished changing. Something in the way they spoke to one another screamed of familiarity, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. He decided to tune them out, focusing on the things he did know about her. There wasn't a lot. She'd been called in by someone on the Arrow's team-and as of now he'd be betting that it was Harper-with the purpose of getting him out of prison. She was good enough at disguise to walk into Iron Heights at least twice and never be thought of as the same person. She either knew how to fake prisoner transfers on her own or had connections that did. The first time he'd seen her, he would have gauged her age in her mid to late thirties. The face she'd put on today made her seem in her late twenties.

Finally, he decided that it was all just too frustrating. "Alright, woman," he growled, barely registering that Roy jumped at the sound of his voice. "You've broken me out of prison. At least tell me your damned name."

Several things happened at once. The woman laughed. Roy slammed on the brakes, whipping around to glare into the back. Quentin through his hands against the dashboard to brace for an impact that never came. Then, the woman laughed even harder.

"Three weeks of planning," Roy began, his eyes narrowed at her, "four costume changes, two burner phones, and a _jailbreak_, and you've never told him your name!?"

_Four costume changes?_ Quentin thought, suddenly curious as to exactly what it had taken to get him out.

Her laughter finally subsided into giggles. "It's my secret to keep as long as I wish," she mused, smacking the young man on his shoulder. "Get back to driving." As the car lurched back into motion, she leaned up between Roy and Quentin, reaching forward to drop the make-up wipes and contact case back in the glove box. Loose, her hair fell well past her shoulders, kinked up from the braid that had kept it beneath the wig. She turned her eyes to Quentin, revealing their natural stormy gray color. Without any of the make-up, her features were even more familiar, and he knew before she spoke why she had such an easy relationship with the young man driving them. "My name is Cassidy," she finally admitted, ghosting her hand against his shoulder. "Cassidy Harper."

A sharp prick pressed into the side of Quentin's neck. "I hope you can understand my keeping secrets, Mr. Lance," Cassidy continued. Her face was starting to get very blurry. "You're about to learn a lot of things, and we can't reveal certain locations until we know how you'll handle it."

Quite quickly, Quentin Lance slipped into darkness.


	3. Initiation

_**Chapter Three - Initiation**_

He came awake slowly, shifting from the world of the unconscious into wakefulness as though he were swimming through a pool of pudding. First, he became aware of the mattress beneath him. It wasn't the hard bed he'd been sleeping on for the last few weeks. No, this bed was actually comfortable. There was a pillow beneath his head and a quilt stretched over his body. His shoes and jacket were gone.

Then, he realized that with the jacket and shoes was the holster and pair of sidearms he'd also strapped on. That brought him to force his eyes open, taking several long moments for his vision to clear and the room to focus around him. There were no windows, and the walls appeared to be made of concrete. Turning his head to the side with more effort than it would have taken to move a mountain revealed that the room was furnished much like his bedroom in his apartment. There was a slim dresser on the wall across from him and a nightstand on either side of the bed. Everything was sleek and modern in light woods. Against the rough concrete walls it was a strange sight.

Finally, his awareness latched onto sounds. The heavy door at one end of the room was halfway open, bright light creeping in along with the voices from the next room. Though she'd been home for months, he still recognized Sara's voice as though he hadn't heard it in years. The other voices were too low and too unfamiliar to pick out, though he suspected that Roy, Cassidy, and Felicity were among them.

Cassidy. It hit him all at once that she must have drugged him. He pushed himself up in bed, fighting back a brief wave of dizziness. It wasn't much different from waking up with a killer hangover, so after a couple of stretches and a few minutes of reminding his brain that he used to function like this daily he'd managed to rouse himself enough to feel fully awake. Anger at the needle in his neck helped him gather his strength as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His trip to the door took longer than he thought it should have, and he paused before crossing through it to brace one arm on the wall and catch his breath. His fingers found the familiar texture of leather, and on closer inspection he found that his jacket and the holster were hanging on a hook in the wall.

Checking his shock that they'd been left with him, Quentin chose to leave the guns where they were. Giving the heavy steel door a shove with his shoulder to open it fully before stepping through, he found himself stopping in surprise before he'd gone five steps on the other side. The building was clearly some form of underground bunker. The large outer room also had no windows, though its ceiling was considerably higher. Far off to his right was an enormous pair of blast doors. 'His room' was clearly further back in the bunker as the left hand wall was much closer. Against that wall about ten feet from the row of doors like his was an industrial style kitchen with a huge island. Almost directly in front of him was a huge array of computer monitors on a desk. Felicity Smoak sat at the monitors, her back to him. Sara and Cassidy were perched side by side on the island, chatting amiably with the blonde tech while she worked. Just beyond Felicity's desk was easily the most extensive set of workout and training equipment that Quentin had ever seen. In the midst of it all, Roy was teaching a slight, dark haired girl a how to box.

What really caught his attention, however, were the rows of equipment between the computers and the blast doors. An entire counter was dedicated to several varieties of arrows, ending on one end with an electric grinder and on the other with a lighted case hosting the Arrow's uniform and bow. Next was a row of staves and small devices, another lighted case displaying Sara's uniform, mask, and wig. Beyond that were rows upon rows of even more interesting things. A massive amount of firearms, ammunition, spare bows in all varieties, darkened cases that appeared empty, and dozens more gadgets that he couldn't even name. It took a long time before he could tear his eyes away and return his focus to the group in front of him.

Sara noticed him first, her head whipping around as he took two shuffling steps forward. She gave him a bright smile and hopped down from the island, drawing the attention of the two women she'd been talking to. Felicity spun her chair around completely, gracing him with a wide grin. "Detective Lance!" she exclaimed. "Welcome to the Arrowcave Mach Two!" Sara reached him, throwing her arms around him to hug him tightly. Over her shoulder, he raised a condescending eyebrow at his 'adopted daughter'.

"The Arrowcave?" he snorted. "All this crazy equipment and you guys couldn't come up with a better name?"

Sara gave a short laugh, stepping back from him and sliding her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "Felicity and Roy are really the only ones that call it that," she admitted, earning an indignant huff from the tech behind her. "How do you feel?"

"I'd be a lot better if I hadn't had a needle of something jammed in my neck," he jabbed, turning a forceful glare on the woman still perched on the counter. The first time he'd seen her, with the red wig and the cryptic messages, he would have sworn she was approaching forty. Without any of her disguises in place he wasn't sure that Cassidy was much older than Laurel. "Did you have to, Miss Harper?"

Swinging her feet against the island beneath her, Cassidy scrunched up her nose in disgust. "Ugh. Just Cassidy, please. I haven't been 'Miss Harper' since college, and my professors only called me that when they were about to be a dick about something." She rolled her head in a circle, emitting several small pops. "You couldn't know the way here in case you take what you're going to learn badly." Her eyes found his, the spark of amusement there almost startling against their gray color rather than the dull brown he'd grown used to. "My little brother showed up at my place and asked me for a favor. I just did what his boss asked."

Frowning, Quentin turned back to Sara. "The city's practically on fire with Slade Wilson adding the gasoline. What could I possibly learn here that I'm going to take badly?"

"How about that I'm the Arrow?"

He almost gave himself whiplash when he whirled about at the familiar voice. Oliver Queen stood beside the rows of equipment, a pair of sweats barely hanging from his hips and a towel draped over his shoulders. Though he'd obviously just showered, there were still faint tinges of green make-up around his eyes. Without another word, the younger man opened the Arrow's case, lifting out the bow and reaching for an arrow from the quiver within. Lighting fast, he whipped himself to the side and loosed the arrow directly at a target on the far end of the room. It hit dead center.

Quentin never even felt the floor as it rushed up to meet him.

* * *

"Great job, Robin Hood. You made a seasoned cop faint by killing a target."

"Syn, we could easily chain you up in the back room until this war is over. Besides, it's probably a side effect of whatever 'Miss Harper' over there drugged him with."

"I don't even want to hear it, pretty boy. I've waltzed my happy ass into Iron Heights twice in the last two weeks just to get him here. I will not take the blame on this because you decided it was time to have a flair for the dramatic."

The bickering became sharper as Quentin fought his way through the fog for the second time that day. He opened his eyes to find everything blurry and several dark shapes hovering in the uncomfortably bright light directly above him. His shoulders were slightly propped up, someone holding his head off of whatever they were resting on while a hand gently probed through his hair. They hit a particularly tender spot and he hissed, his eyes finally adjusting. Oliver was leaning over him on his right, helping Sara to keep him elevated. Cassidy was the one checking the back of his head. Felicity, Roy, and the dark haired girl completed the circle above him, bending over where they stood to get a good look.

"Just a bump," Cassidy said, her fingers sliding out of his hair. Oliver lowered him to rest back against his daughter. "No blood." Suddenly, Cassidy's face was very close, her eyes boring into his. She moved her head from side to side, first blocking the overhead light and then shading him from it. "Pupil dilation is normal. Shouldn't be a concussion from the fall." She pushed herself to her feet, training an annoyed gaze on Oliver. "Next time you do your big reveal, make sure your victim's not in a place to fall on the fucking concrete."

Quentin pushed himself off Sara's lap, easing up on his elbows. "I've got a lot of questions," he stated plainly, staring directly at Oliver. The young man nodded, pushing himself to his feet and offering his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Quentin took it, allowing his daughter's boyfriend to pull him to his feet.

"I have one," Oliver quipped, "and how you respond will determine whether or not I have answers for you." There was no part of the spoiled boy who'd broken Laurel's heart in the man who was staring at him now. Their hands were still clasped, Oliver's grip tight as his eyes bored into Quentin's. The older man gave a brief nod, ready to answer whatever he needed to. Oliver's hand snaked up to his wrist, and iron grip around the pulse point.

_Poor man's lie detector,_ Quentin thought, willing his arm to relax under the pressure.

"Will knowing that it's me affect your ability to work with the Arrow to save Starling City?" Oliver demanded.

Quentin didn't hesitate. "Not unless you break my daughter's heart before we're done."

Oliver's mouth fell open in the faintest gesture of surprise before he let out a short bark of laughter. His hand fell from Quentin's wrist, returning to his side for the briefest second. After another pause, he held it out again, and Quentin gave it a hearty shake.

"Wow, that was intense."

"Looked like something straight off a tv show."

"Sounded like Joss Whedon dialogue to me."

The Arrow and the former cop turned to the computer desk at the same time. Felicity sat in her chair, facing them with one Harper on each side. The three of them were passing a large bag of cheese puffs between them, munching as they watched the exchange. "Nah," Cassidy began, "Whedon would have put snark in the brooding vigilante's dialogue as well."

From the corner of his eye, Quentin watched as Oliver dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his temples forcefully. "The three of them will make me insane," he muttered to himself before continuing more loudly. "Roy, do you and your sister have horrific junk food hidden all over this place?"

Roy laughed loudly, but it was Cassidy who answered. "We went hungry a lot as kids," she admitted with a shrug. "Hoarding became habit."

* * *

It was eleven at night and Quentin found himself uncomfortably bored. Oliver had patiently answered his every question, Felicity, Sara, and a suddenly appearing John Diggle filling in some of the details. He now knew most of the history of the Arrow, from the bare minimum of details about the island and Robert Queen's dying wish to the vigilante's extensive career in Starling. They'd even explained-in hushed tones while the younger man was on a food run-about Roy's strange new condition and the nature of the Mirakuru. It was a lot for one person to wrap their head around.

When night fell, the physically proficient members of the team suited up and went out on patrol. Quentin had tried to talk them into letting him go, but his still healing injuries from the fights in Iron Heights coupled with his well known identity had put a solid roadblock in his way. Plus, Oliver had told him with a frighteningly excited glance, he still had to be trained. It was that comment that had him making use of the workout equipment. Most of it was fight related items that he had no clue how to use, but before he'd left Diggle had shown him where the weightlifting equipment was and told him in no uncertain terms which machines he was not allowed to use until he was fully healed. He'd been working through low weight repetitions ever since, trying his damnedest not to let himself worry.

At around ten thirty, Cassidy had wandered over to the sets of gymnast equipment next to where he was working. She'd gone straight into a workout without a word, headphones affixed in her ears. He hadn't paid her much attention after the first few moments, so it came as a bit of a shock when he sat pulled himself to a sitting position and found her perched on the weight bench just a few feet away, watching him.

"Your stomach was growling," she told him after a brief staring contest. "Thought I'd ask if you wanted to join me for a snack."

He was going to turn her down, but then his stomach let out a loud rumble and he decided that he didn't have much of a choice. He followed her toward the kitchen, snatching up a towel has he went. As he scrubbed the towel over his head, he felt his muscles start to tighten. He was more out of shape than he thought, and he had a feeling that the next morning was not going to feel too fantastic. Cassidy made her way around the kitchen, shooting him brief questions about allergies and food preferences as she went. Apparently, her idea of a snack was really a small meal, and before long she was settling a plate of cold pasta salad loaded with vegetables and grilled chicken in front of him. He thanked her and dug in, sighing in bliss at food that hadn't been mass produced, frozen, and microwaved. The burgers Roy had brought them earlier were delicious, but in Quentin's mind nothing could beat a homemade meal.

After several moments of amicable chewing, he slowed down long enough to start up a conversation. "You know, I never knew Harper had a sister."

Across from him, Cassidy shrugged. "I'm only his half sister, and I haven't exactly been present for the last decade or so," she admitted quietly, eyes on her plate. "Our dad was a gambler, and Roy's mom has always had a pill problem." She speared a tomato, but looked up at him before she bothered to eat it. "My mom dropped me on dad's doorstep about a month after Roy was born for a 'visit.' I never saw her again." Shoving the fork in her mouth, she turned her attention back to her plate.

"I'm sorry to hear that." His own childhood hadn't been all that spectacular, but Quentin had made damn sure that his girls were raised in a loving environment. "What's kept you away for so long?"

The look she gave him couldn't be described as anything but an 'are you kidding me?' look, and there was no lie in her eyes when she explained. "Out in the field with an international con artist is no place for a growing boy."


End file.
